


Solstice

by yellowcottondresses



Category: Nashville (TV)
Genre: Father-Daughter Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-08
Updated: 2014-05-08
Packaged: 2018-01-23 23:26:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1583267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yellowcottondresses/pseuds/yellowcottondresses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the longest day of the year, and Deacon has a house full of daughters. It's a lucky way to live.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Solstice

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note: No explanation for how this came about, or why I actually decided to keep writing it down even when I realized it was the weirdest thing I’d ever write. Call it a crazy “what if?” scenario that popped into my head at work one day that wouldn’t leave me alone.
> 
> I don’t own Nashville.

I.

At seven in the morning in the middle of a heat wave, Deacon wakes up to find a redhead in his kitchen, sticking her head in the freezer.

From the high chair next to the counter, the baby yelps, banging her damp fists on the plastic tray. She’s wearing only a diaper, and the sun is just coming up but his kitchen is airless and smells heavy, even this early, because the A/C broke last night. Which wouldn’t be a problem if this was January, but it’s June, and hot as all-get-out. The days hover near a hundred degrees, with no plans of letting up.

“You know,” Deacon says mildly, to the shape with its head stuck in the freezer, “there are other ways of staying cool.”

“Freezer’s not working,” the head in his freezer says, aggravated. “You’ll have to throw out all this meat. Before it spoils.”

“S’alright. Most of that stuff’s been in there since the Reagan administration, anyway.”

“Great.” The freezer door slams, and Deacon finds himself looking at a scowl. “Now I can’t freeze her teething rings.”

“Just stick ‘em in ice water.”

She blinks.

“We don’t have any ice,” she says, her voice teetering on that last word. 

From the high chair, the baby shrieks again. Deacon stares at the coffee pot, willing his cup full of hot, steaming liquid.

“I’ll go to the grocery store,” he says, making a move for the high chair. He lifts the baby into his arms, feeling her squirm uncomfortably, her skin flushed and damp. She’s still fussing, so he joggles her slightly, and she squawks into his ear. “They have bags of ice in the freezers. We’ll use that until this gets fixed.”

At those words, she deflates.

“I can get the ice,” she says quietly. 

Deacon bounces the baby again. Her fine blonde hair is damp, clinging to her soft scalp. 

“It’s okay. I gotta go, anyway. The milk’s about to spoil.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“Which is why I said I’d do it.”

She brushes the hair out of her eyes, sighing. Then holds out her arms, and Deacon hands her the baby.

“I’ll open a window,” he offers.

She grins, rueful.

“Can you watch her for a minute?” she asks. “I’m gonna take a cold shower.”

Deacon nods. 

“Go,” he says, waving her away with one hand. “Shower, stinky girl.”

She makes a face at him. 

“She just ate,” she says, gesturing toward Maia. “Maybe she’ll puke on you.”

Maia gurgles, as if to agree with her mother, and Deacon adjusts her damp, sweaty weight in his arms. 

“She had carrots,” Layla adds, heading up the stairs. “Tons of orange carrots.”

“It’ll match your hair,” Deacon shouts back.

Deacon watches her run up the steps. He looks over at Maia, pulling on the collar of his shirt.

“Don’t even think about it,” he tells her. 

 

II.

The way Deacon sees it, weird is relative. 

Sure, it’s a little weird that Layla Grant – _American Hitmaker_ runner-up, former reality TV star, one-time Edgehill recording artist – is his housemate. It’s weird that he now has a baby swing in the corner of his kitchen, a changing table in his living room, and jars of baby food lining the walls of his cupboards. It’s weird that he’s now well-versed in the concept of swaddling, and knows exactly which brand of organic baby cereal Layla keeps stocked in the pantry.

It’s weird that after being unable to watch his own daughter grow up, he’s now watching someone else’s.

But a lot of things are weird. Sure, finding out Will preferred guys was surprising, but once the novelty wore off, it was just another fact. And for him at least, one still fairly low on the weird scale. There are a lot of things outranking it. 

The way he sees it, weird is having to shop at those foofy, overpriced granola stores for the kind of breakfast Maddie likes. Weird is having to co-parent his child with the man who had not only raised her for thirteen years, but also ruined the only stable relationship Deacon ever had in his life. Weird is being forty-seven years old and talking about preschool waiting lists and SAT prep courses at the same time. 

And even now, the entire idea of him actually being a father still blows his mind. 

But to him, it’s all still fairly low on the “weird” scale. If he has to place it, he’ll probably set it somewhere between synchronized swimming and the concept of free-range chickens. 

(Which, despite Layla’s best intentions, Deacon is never going to wrap his head around. Sure, it’s better for animals and all that, but he still can’t taste the difference.)

Simply put: Deacon knows his living situation is – and has been – just plain weird. 

But so what. 

He’d been an out-of-control alcoholic for almost thirty years, combining that with life on the road. He’s been in weirder situations than living with his gay tourmate’s ex-wife, and the baby Will abandoned. Can’t think of any right at this moment, but Deacon is sure there’ve been weirder ones. 

He’d met Layla briefly, when they were on Luke’s tour together. She’d seemed nice enough, but Deacon thought she seemed too delicate, too fragile. Like a porcelain doll, with those wide eyes and a sweet smile. When he shook her slender hand for the first time, Deacon got the impression that he would shatter her fingers if he gripped too hard. 

Back then, he’d wondered what a rough-and-tumble guy like Will was doing with someone who looked nothing like his speed – not to mention like she could break at the slightest touch. He couldn’t imagine Will ever being interested in a girl like this, let alone marrying her. And the more he saw of them while on Luke’s tour, the more he wondered. Will always seemed so preoccupied, and his young, sweet wife seemed to be trying to hold their marriage together single-handedly, with mixed results.

But of course when the news got out, everything started clicking into place for Deacon. Layla was the perfect front; she was naïve, she was trusting, and she was too in love with Will to see anything beyond what she wanted to see. And when Scarlett told him – swearing him to secrecy – that Will had been her first time, Deacon could put the pieces together and form the whole picture that had eluded everyone in Nashville for months. He figured, with the way Will had been tugging that girl along, eloping at the suggestion of her much-older, very persuasive fiance probably felt like it was all her idea, once Will put the plan in her head.

And when the scandal broke –hitting the headlines of every tabloid and website in America – Layla ended up on his couch, staring at the TV with that same shell-shocked expression he’d seen in photos of war orphans and disaster victims. Scarlett had dragged him into the kitchen, but Layla didn’t even seem to notice that they’d left the room.

“I don’t know what you expect me to do,” Deacon said.

Scarlett’s eyes narrowed. It was a little scary, though he wouldn’t admit it.

“She has nowhere else to go,” she hissed. “She can’t exactly go back to Will’s. Reporters are followin’ her everywhere. If we go to a hotel they’ll just chase her down. They’re vicious, Deacon. She needs a bed, and a safe place to stay.”

“What about her parents?”

Scarlett winced. 

“They don’t want anything to do with this,” she said, and she frowned when she peered over her shoulder at the girl still sitting, immobile, on his couch. Layla hadn’t said a word since his niece had hauled her inside, wrapped in Scarlett’s old duster to avoid being recognized, and sat down on the couch. Even when she’d walked, she moved like she was in a trance, like she wasn’t sure what was real. 

Deacon couldn’t stop watching her, the look on her face. It reminded him of the way Scarlett had looked when she came off that plane, headed to the clinic. Like she had no idea what was real and what wasn’t. Like she wasn’t even sure she was real, at that point. 

He had to blink and pretend like he didn’t see Past Scarlett. The hollow look on her face when Deacon saw her on that tarmac, the way she seemed to see right through them all. 

“Have they called?” he asked. 

Scarlett just looked away.

It was Deacon’s first encounter with his knowledge of the Grants. But it wouldn’t be his last. 

“There’s something else,” Scarlett said, her voice low. She was watching Layla’s silent, huddled form on the couch. 

Layla wasn’t showing yet, so nobody knew. Except for Will, but since everything blew up a few days ago he hadn’t made any public appearances, so him telling the world about the baby seemed unlikely. They had a plan with the record label to announce it at three months along, but since both Will and Layla had been dropped from Edgehill by that asshole Jeff Fordham in the wake of Will’s news getting out, it hardly mattered anymore when they announced it. Layla wouldn’t be able to hide it forever.  
Deacon looked at over at the girl on the couch. 

“Look,” he said quietly. “I can’t imagine what kinda hell that girl must be in. And I know you’re just tryin’ to help her out. But isn’t there a better plan? This is way outta my league, Scar.” 

It sounded feeble, even to his ears. Especially when Scarlett crossed her arms, and gave him that patented Claybourne look. And Scarlett was a Claybourne, even if her last name read O’Connor. Deacon rarely saw his niece worked up or standing her ground, but when she did, he always felt compelled to sit up and listen.

It was a little like Rayna. When she felt certain about something, she didn’t let up, and usually wouldn’t until she got her point across loud and clear. 

“That girl has nowhere else to go,” she said. Her normally sweet voice was hard and flat, devoid of any gentleness. “We got a bed. We got the space. She can’t get through this by herself.”

Deacon wouldn’t learn until later that Scarlett barely knew Layla, even though they’d briefly been on the same label. That the only reason the girl had ended up on his couch that night was because Scarlett had been downtown, and saw Layla being hounded by a crowd of reports, chasing her down and hurling questions at her like bullets. One of them tried to grab the girl, and ended up pushing her to the ground. 

That night, a certain Youtube video went viral – one of Scarlett helping Layla off the sidewalk, then stepping right in the middle of the frenzy and cursing the reporter out with words Deacon didn’t even know his niece had in her repertoire. It was the second time that year Scarlett had been an internet sensation, but this time, it was because she was fighting back. And after seeing the whole world watch her breakdown, Scarlett wasn’t going to let those cameras tear apart some other poor, hurting girl who’d been broken down piece by piece.

So Scarlett had helped Layla Grant off the sidewalk. She’d cursed out that reporter in a brilliant, angry, vile display of her pure Claybourne fire. She’d put her arm around the shaking girl and taken her away from ground zero, and brought her to a safe place. 

Deacon looked at his niece, staring him down, and felt ashamed. 

He couldn’t look into her hard expression. Instead, he looked at the girl on the couch. She was staring straight ahead with sightless eyes, completely still, Scarlett’s duster drawn over her thin shoulders like a blanket for shock victims.

Again, he saw Scarlett. In that wheelchair on the tarmac, her vacant eyes and lost expression. And the determination in her eyes just a day later, when she signed herself out. 

“I’ll get some clean towels,” he mumbled. 

 

III.

It takes about five minutes for Deacon to realize why Layla had acted like it was the end of the world – no freezer means no ice, no ice means no frozen teething rings, and no teething rings equals one fractious, over-tired baby, not only overheated because of the freak weather but also dealing with the nonstop drama known – all too simply, in Deacon’s opinion – as teething. 

Maia started cutting her first tooth last month, and between constantly swollen gums and the freak weather they’d been having, she’d been cranky all hours of the day. Baby aspirin didn’t do much to help the pain, and no amount of cooing, cajoling, and pleading could calm her when she started fussing over it. 

Without any effective way to help her, the baby spent most of her waking hours screaming, and kept waking up at night hot and hurting and unable to be calmed down. The past few weeks, Deacon had been woken up so many times at night to the baby’s tears, he could have sworn his own gums were exploding with pain. 

Though maybe that was the lack of sleep talking. 

The teething rings had started up a few weeks ago, at the suggestion of Rayna. She’d brought over Maddie for a guitar lesson, and as she walked up the porch the first words she greeted him with were, “Good grief, are you torturing that poor baby? Cause we can hear her all the way out in the yard.”

Deacon shrugged.

“She’s teething,” was all he’d said.

Rayna nodded, instantly understanding. 

“So, what, you just lettin’ her scream it out?”

“I dunno, Ray,” he’d snapped. The lack of sleep and the constant soundtrack of Maia yelling was not doing his nerves any favors. “Do I look like a damn baby whisperer to you?”

“No,” she’d snapped right back. “But you DO look like you need to do something, besides let that poor thing just howl her lungs out!”

Maddie kept glancing back and forth the two of them. Then she looked up at Deacon.

“Did she, umm –” 

Maddie pointed to the collar of his shirt, and when he peered down he realized the filmy stain on the fabric, smelling like sour milk. 

Rayna scooted their daughter out of the way, walking straight into his house, following the sound of crying. 

“Okay,” she’d said. “Where is that baby? And go change. Now.”

While Deacon and Maddie had their guitar lesson, Rayna spent the hour calming the baby down while Layla showered and slept. And of course, Maia obeyed. Everyone listened to Rayna. 

Which was why Layla went and bought out the drugstore’s supply of plastic teething rings the next afternoon, at Rayna’s insistence. And while Layla did the laundry that had been piling up for three days, Rayna told stories of the nightmare that Daphne had been when she was teething. The gel packs were the only thing that had helped her swollen gums, and gave her and Teddy any peace of mind. So Layla went out to buy some, and came back with a supply Deacon thought would outlast the time that Maia would need them.

But it was magic. Blessed, quiet magic. The baby gummed on the little rings day and night, her aching mouth finding relief on the frozen plastic, and he and Layla could finally get some rest. Those teething rings were as big a success as a number-one hit around this house – probably more, to be honest. Layla always kept a pair in the freezer, and Deacon kept finding them all over the house in strange places – in the cushions of his couch, on the passenger seat of his car, and once, exploded in the dryer all over a load of his nice button-downs. 

(Layla apologized about five hundred times for that one.)

But now they don’t have any cold rings to calm her down, and the best Deacon can do is Maia was joggle her on his waist, remembering Layla’s warning that she’d just fed her. She’s barfed on him enough times that it didn’t really phase Deacon anymore, but that doesn’t mean he enjoys it. 

“Okay,” he says, bouncing her as much as he dares. “How about we get Uncle Deacon some coffee? That sound good to you?”

Maia drools, looking thoughtful. Or as thoughtful as she can look, anyway. Her hot, damp fingers pick at the buttons of his shirt while he grabs the coffee pot and pours himself a cup, enjoying the silence. Maia’s a good baby and always had been, but the reprieve from the constant crying is always a treat.

He glances at the clock on the wall. Maddie will be over at eleven for a guitar lesson. Soon, his home will be a house full of daughters. 

He smiles to himself, taking that first steaming sip. It’s a lucky way to live.

 

IV.

Scarlett didn’t have much in the way of a long-term plan for this situation. It didn’t take Deacon long to realize that. His niece just brought Layla into their home, made up the spare bed with clean sheets, and wouldn’t give Deacon any direct answers.

For the most part, Layla stayed out of his way. After a week or so, Deacon figured that she must have been coordinating her schedule to avoid him, because he could tell by the plates in the dishwasher and the creak from the staircase that she was hurrying to stay out of sight.

He tried to talk to Scarlett about it, but she didn’t have much to tell him. 

“I mean, it’s weird enough that she does her laundry in the middle of the night,” Deacon said. “But I saw her at breakfast yesterday mornin’. She was eating a piece of coffee cake on a napkin. When I asked her why, she said it was because she didn’t want to use a plate.”

“She probably doesn’t want to seem like a burden,” Scarlett said, taking a sip of coffee. 

“Using a plate ain’t a burden.”

“She just doesn’t want things to get awkward. Cut her some slack.”

“I am cuttin’ her slack, Scarlett, that’s why she’s livin’ in my house.”

“Then what’s the problem? Other than her eating habits.”

Deacon sighed. “There’s not a problem. I just don’t want her to run around here like a scared rabbit. It’s not like we’re gonna throw her out on the streets.”

“Try to imagine what she’s going through.” Scarlett narrowed her eyes at him over the rim of her mug. “I don’t think she’s big on trusting other people right now. Or, like, ever.”

“That’s the other thing,” Deacon said, keeping his voice low. He wasn’t sure if Layla was listening or not. Her door was shut at the top of the stairs, but that didn’t mean anything. “That girl’s situation is gonna make itself known sooner or later. So what do we do about that?”

Scarlett sighed, pushing her coffee away. 

“We’ve been lookin’ around at some places,” she said. “But there’s not a lot in Nashville that doesn’t cost an arm and a leg, and the stuff that’s less expensive is too far from everything.”

“How much money she got?”

“Not enough.”

“What about money from that TV show?”

Scarlett grimaced.

“They’re withholding payments,” she told him. “They had to pull the entire season on account of – y’know – and the network apparently lost a lot of money on it, so they’re withholding payment until they can recoup the losses.”

“And that’s legal?”

Scarlett buried her head in her hands.

“If you want her to leave –” she mumbled.

“I just want to know what the plan is here, Scarlett.”

“There isn’t one right now.”

“Okay. That’s all I needed to know.”

He watched Scarlett stir her coffee. He wondered how many cups she was on, at this point. 

These were the things that mattered, since his niece signed herself out of that hospital. Monitoring how much she slept. How much and what she ate. The heights and shallows of her moods, the color of her skin. The looks in her eyes, the expressions on her face. 

She had circles under her eyes right now. 

“Why is this your problem?” he asked. 

Scarlett sighed. 

“I’m serious, Scar. You have your own life to live and get back on track right now. You got enough on your plate.” He leaned closer to her across the table, dropping his voice. “Why is this girl your problem?”

There was a noise from the steps. 

They both looked up, just in time to see a dark-haired figure hurry into the upstairs hallway. A door opened, and then slammed shut.

Scarlett’s eyes hardened when she looked at him. She didn’t even have to say it, just left her plate and coffee cup untouched as she got up and walked away. 

He found the journal later that evening, sitting on top of the dryer – a small red notebook, the cheap wire-bound kind you can get at Walgreens for two bucks. He thought it was one of Scarlett’s at first, until he picked it up and saw the sprawling writing inside, nothing like his niece’s precise, careful hand.

_He brought me the magnolia the day after I told him. He left it on my table in a water glass, cut from the tree outside. There was a note saying “I love you. Let’s do this. We’ll talk about what to tell Gina & the others when I get home. And PS I think it’s a boy.” _

_Gina called today. She wants me to write a book. She told me that it would help to get my story out there, tell the world what really happened so they get my side. I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to give the tabloids more crap but Gina pointed out that the book would bring in $$ and I need that. But I still don’t know._

_I don’t want to be like my mom. Sticking me in pageants and modeling and dance lessons and singing and everything and making me do it all because she wanted to make money off of me. If I write this book, it’s like doing what she did. Except my kid’s not even born yet._

_He told me we’d love it no matter what._

_But what if I can’t? Because of how I got it?_

_What if he’s messed me up so bad, I can’t love it?_

He slammed the notebook shut, closing his eyes. 

The next time Layla came back downstairs, he had a new stack of plates and a packet of silverware waiting for her. They were sitting in a cabinet he’d emptied out for her, over the microwave. 

“Thought you might be more comfortable like this,” he told her.

Layla stared at the bare space of the cabinet, the empty shelves. 

“You didn’t have to buy me anything,” she whispered. 

“It’s not a house, sweetheart. It’s some dishes and plastic silverware.”

She wrapped her arms around herself. The long sleeves of her sweater dangled over her fingertips, the hem falling almost to her knees. He wondered if it belonged to Will. 

“You don’t have to do anything for me,” she said. “I’m gonna go. I shouldn’t have stayed here this long, I need to let you get back to your life.”

“You can stay here as long as you like.” He took a step closer to her, and she took a step back. “Look, I’m sorry about what you heard at breakfast the other day. All right? I’m worried about Scarlett. Have been for months. That’s old news. What isn’t is that you need a place to stay, and I got the space.” 

“No, you were right. I shouldn’t even be here.” she said. 

Layla was already hurrying towards the stairs, towards the guest room.

“Look,” she said. “I appreciate you letting me stay here. But you were right; it’s nobody’s problem but mine. I’ll find someplace else. Sorry I wasted your time.”

“You didn’t,” Deacon said, following her up the stairs. “Layla, you can stay here as long as you want.”

She hurried into the bedroom, grabbing whatever clothes weren’t stuffed in the suitcase in the corner and shoving them inside. 

“I’ll leave,” she said, more to herself than to him. “I won’t bother you ever again, I’m sorry.”

“You’re not botherin’ – honey, please stop.” He reached out a hand to Layla, who leaped back like she’d been stung.

“Just let me pack and I’ll go,” she said, her voice wobbling. 

Deacon put his hands up, backing away from her. 

“I’m not askin’ you to leave,” he said, keeping his voice low. “I’m askin’ you to stay here and let us help you.”

“I don’t need you to.”

“So where are you gonna go?”

“Not really your business,” she told him. Then she looked right at him and said, “and it’s not your problem, anyway.”

“What about that baby, then? You have a plan for it?”

Her head snapped up. 

“That’s not your problem, either,” she said. “You don’t owe me anything.”

Layla’s eyes were wide and glassy. He took another step towards her, holding his arm out. She stared at it, refusing to take hold, instead hunching into herself. She squeezed her eyes shut, biting her lip. 

Deacon didn’t know Layla Grant. Hell, even Scarlett barely knew Layla Grant, and she was the one who brought the girl here. And Layla was right – Deacon didn’t owe her anything. It wasn’t his problem.

Still, he stood in the doorway, watching her stand at the foot of the bed, clothes spilling on the sheets and her hands frozen at her sides. 

“Look, Layla” he said, as she folded a half dozen more shirts and still refused to acknowledge him. “You’re welcome to stay here as long as you like. I’m not gonna throw you out.”

Layla didn’t say anything else. Just picked through the pile, picking up clothes and folding them with glacial precision, moving piece by piece through the knotted pile. She wouldn’t look at him, pretending like he wasn’t even there as she grabbed a pair of pants she’d thrown aside and folded them over one arm, then into a smaller bundle she held to her chest. 

Deacon sighed, staring at the floor. He spotted the red notebook sitting on the bedside table, and saw her hands shaking as she picked up another shirt. 

“It’s not about owing,” he said. “We’re just tryin’ to help, sweetheart.”

Layla slammed her suitcase shut. Scarlett and Zoey had gone over to her and Will’s house and packed Layla’s things for her, and she’d been living out of it ever since. She hadn’t unpacked anything, keeping her suitcase in the corner of the bedroom while she lived out of it, like this was a hotel room. 

Deacon wondered if she’d been too afraid to unpack. If she was too worried about getting asked to leave, or thrown out, or abandoned once more. Like her entire world would collapse again, if she let herself trust someone else.

 

V.

Maia is starting to cool down just the slightest bit. He opened the kitchen windows and rolled up his sleeves, and when she started to whine he dampened a washcloth with cold water and gave it to the baby to suck on. It drips all over the both of them while she gums the fraying edge, but it’s the best he can do until he fixes the damn freezer.

He braces himself up against the couch, letting Maia crawl over his lap. Layla wants the baby to walk instead of crawl, but Deacon’s always been of the mind that you have to walk before you can run, so to speak. So he lets the baby sprawl on his legs, her pudgy hands reaching up for him. 

“S’okay,” he tells her, as she scoots across him. “I won’t tell Mama if you won’t.”

Maia grins, a smirky expression that reminds him of Will. She looks a lot like him. Blonde and fair, with the same blue eyes. 

She’s a good baby. Only a few months old, and with her own personality; isn’t just a small, screaming lump. Deacon never thought of babies having much of a sense of self, but Maia has plenty of it already. Already so curious – always reaching, pointing, grabbing, babbling. A lot of spunk, and she can’t even walk yet.

There’s always that pang he gets, when he thinks of Maddie at this age. He’d been afraid to hold her or even be around her too much, because she seemed so fragile, and there were so many rules about how to act with her that it stressed him out whenever Rayna offered the baby to him. But then she got older, and there was a smile she got whenever she looked at him that he wouldn’t have traded anything for.

Maia’s a little like that. When she got old enough to recognize his voice, she started kicking her legs out and reaching for him, her hands grabbing at the air until he took hold. 

He wonders if Will is ever going to have this. If Maia will start looking around the room at the sound of his voice, instead of Deacon’s; if she’ll squirm in someone’s arms when she sees him because she wants her daddy to hold her; if she’ll blink herself out of a nap, mellow for once, and smile up at Will as he peers down at her in her crib. If Will is ever going to be the one to pick her up, squeezing her chubby legs and kissing her neck, sing-songing “hey, pretty girl!” as he feeds Maia her afternoon bottle. 

He wonders if Maddie would have smiled at him differently, even at Maia’s age, had she known. 

There’s the sound of a key in the door, and then a knock.

“Come on in!” he calls.

Scarlett bustles into the living room, holding a trash bag in one hand and a basket of muffins in the other. She looks like a cross between the Swiss Miss lady and Little Red Riding Hood, in braids and a long red coat that looks hot enough to cause heat stroke just by looking at it. 

“Did you suddenly become a penguin,” Deacon drawls with a smile, “or are you just feelin’ sick?”

Scarlett blinks at him.

“Laundry day,” she says, rustling the garbage bag in his direction. “This and my underpants are the only clothes I have left.”

He winces. “What is it y’all call stuff like that? TMI? Cause I could have gone without knowin’ that bit of information.”

She makes a face at him, reaching into his fridge. She grabs a cold bottle of water, and downs it in almost one gulp. 

“Those for Layla?” he asks, gesturing towards the basket.

Scarlett arches her eyebrows at him.

“They’re cranberry-walnut,” she says, answering the question he didn’t outright ask. “And if you want ‘em, ask the birthday girl.”

She bends down, planting a kiss on Maia’s sweaty cheek.

“Hey, sweetie,” she trills. Then she turns to Deacon. “Layla still here?” 

Deacon nodded. “Upstairs.”

“Did you make sure she requested off from work? Cause I already got supper coolin’ at home.”

“It’s only eight AM,” he says. 

“I got up early.”

“How early?”

He doesn’t mean to make it sound like an accusation, but Scarlett shrugs it off. “I was workin’ on a song. Decided to kill two birds with one stone and put the biscuits in while I was writing.”

Deacon watches her pour herself a glass of lemonade, brushing her sweaty bangs out of her eyes. 

“You sure you’re all right with watchin’ the baby?” she asks him. 

“Yeah, I think I can spare one night to let y’all have some birthday fun.”

“I just know you’re busy,” Scarlett says. She takes Maia from him, tucking the baby against her waist. “Y’know, tryin’ to write. And it’s kinda hard to do that when she’s around.”

“Which is why I plan my day around it. Giving myself the time to write when I know I can,” he tells her. “Layla deserves some birthday fun. And it’s good that you n’ Zoey are gettin’ her out of the house.”

Maia reaches for one of Scarlett’s braids, trying to shove it in her mouth. Scarlett gently extricates it from the baby’s chubby hand, and winces when Maia gives her hair a hard yank. 

“Can I have one of these yogurts,” she asks, looking back in the fridge, “or are they Layla’s?”

“They’re Maddie’s,” Deacon replies. “But I gotta go to the grocery store today, so go ahead and take one.”

“No, it’s all right. I’ll just take one of your Poptarts.”

Deacon smirks. “Oh, aren’t you sweet.”

Scarlett hitches Maia higher up on her waist and sticks the Poptart in the toaster. 

“Is Maddie staying over this weekend?” she asks. She tilts her head away from the baby slightly, so Maia won’t grab her earrings. Zoey made that mistake once – just once. 

Deacon nods. He doesn’t add that Maddie is currently grounded for coming home past curfew, and that Rayna had called to tell him that. She isn’t going to cancel the guitar lesson or stop Maddie from spending the weekend here – she doesn’t think it’s fair to punish him from seeing his daughter – but Deacon’s definitely being kept in the parental discipline loop these days, and is expected hold up his end of the bargain and keep Maddie’s behavior in line. 

The poptarts jump out of the toaster. Scarlett grabs the edge of one and nearly drops it on the floor. 

“Shit,” she mutters, waving her burned fingers in the air. “Sorry, baby girl. Ignore that.”

There are footsteps down the stairs, and Layla emerges, looking a little more awake and slightly less frustrated. Her newly-copper hair is pulled into a damp bun on top of her head. 

“Do you, like, own normal clothes?” she drawls, when she sees Scarlett standing in his kitchen, barefoot and still in her winter coat. Then Layla slips an arm around his niece, hugging her tightly.

“Laundry day,” Deacon fills in, and Layla grins over Scarlett’s shoulder. 

“Explain to me how you can live in a place with a porch and guard gate,” Layla says, “but no washer/dryer unit.”

“There is,” Scarlett replies. “But roaches like the basement a little too much for my taste.”

“Gross,” Layla replies. Then spots the basket of muffins. “Those look so good.”

“Not as good as the hair looks on you,” Scarlett replies. “It’s a great color!”

Layla reaches up and touches the pile of wet, tangled hair on top of her head. 

“I keep forgetting it’s there,” she says, grabbing one of the muffins. “Then I look in the mirror and get the shock of my life.”

“You n’ me both,” Deacon says.

Scarlett swats him.

“Hey!” he says. “I’m not sayin’ it looks bad. Just sayin’ it’s different.”

“Maybe I should have gone darker,” she says. “Or just gone all-out and went for blonde. Then nobody would recognize me anymore.”

Scarlett and Deacon exchange looks.

“You make a good redhead,” Scarlett says, to clear the silence. “I’m surprised you had it lyin’ around.”

Layla shrugs, peeling back the wrapping on the muffin with her index finger.

“I had it in the bathroom since last year,” she says. “Right after –”

Deacon and Scarlett both let this hang. They’ve learned it’s best to, when Layla gets as close as she ever gets to approaching the topic of Will. 

“Then I found out you can’t dye your hair when you’re pregnant, anyway,” Layla finishes, as if this were a full conversation they had been having.

Scarlett peels the paper off one of the muffins, absorbed in her fingernails.

“Least I didn’t go with Option B,” Layla says, after a moment.

“Which was?” Deacon asks.

Layla gives him a grim smile. “Shaving my head. Full-on Britney Spears.”

“Well,” he replies, “prob’ly would have been recognized less.”

“Sort of what I was going for.”

“Hey!” Scarlett calls, cutting through their conversation. Her voice is muffled, since her head is poking in his freezer. “Did anybody notice the freezer’s broken?”

Deacon takes that as his cue to leave the room. He takes the baby from Scarlett and goes to wait for Maddie, in their usual place by the back porch. 

After a moment, Layla follows him, feet bare on the hardwood floor. She runs a hand through her drying hair. 

“You sure you’re fine with watching her tonight?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” Layla says.

“And you shouldn’t have to work so hard on your special day,” he counters, grinning. “Birthday girl.”

Layla gives him a tired smile.

“Is Maddie coming over?”

“Yep. Ten AM.”

Layla holds out her arms for Maia. “We’ll be scarce.”

“You don’t have to.”

She looks over her shoulder at him. The baby drools, filmy residue marking a wet stain on Layla’s t-shirt. 

“We will be,” is all she says.

He watches her go, and waits for his daughter to arrive.

 

VI.

To this day, Deacon believes that if the drain had never clogged, Layla would have avoided speaking to him until the day she gave birth. 

She almost made it. After what happened at breakfast with Scarlett, she’d worked her entire schedule around avoiding him, so obvious he knew it was intentional this time – eating in the middle of the night, sneaking out of the house to go to her doctor’s appointments, scurrying out of sight whenever he walked into the same room. Once he heard her talking on the phone as he came into the kitchen, discussing housing deposits. 

Layla didn’t say anything, and he didn’t ask. But he did notice that she was home less and less, and when he heard a few more conversations in corners and behind closed bedroom doors, he figured it was only a matter of time before he lost his new, pregnant roommate to a downtown apartment, one with room for a nursery. 

Until the day she’d come into the kitchen while he was drinking his coffee and asked him if he had any clog-draining supplies.

He’d blinked. “What?”

“Clog-draining supplies,” she’d repeated. “Like, to unclog a drain.”

It was seven in the morning. On a Thursday. 

“You wanna unclog a drain?”

She’d nodded, clearly impatient that he wasn’t getting this. 

“The shower won’t drain,” she said. “I need to fix it. Do you have anything I can use to do that?”

Deacon shrugged. “We might have some Drano in the closet.”

“And that’ll unclog it.”

“It should.”

Layla sighed. “It will, or it should?”

Deacon watched her. 

“You know,” he said, “I can unclog it for you. It’s my house, anyway, so I should take care of it.”

A tight expression went briefly across her face, then it was gone. 

“No, I can do it myself,” Layla said brusquely. “Just tell me where the drain stuff is and I can do it.”

He looked at her for a moment, the dark circles under her eyes and the pale, washed-out look to her skin. The curve of her stomach, hidden under a sweater even though they were inside, and there was nobody else to see. 

“Try under the upstairs sink,” he said, finally. “I don’t know if there’s anything left, but if there is, you can go ahead and use it.”

She nodded, then turned her back to him and headed upstairs.

That would have been the end of it, really, if he hadn’t come home early from that meeting with his manager. Instead of being greeted by silence in an empty house, he could hear the sobbing right when he walked in the door. 

“Scarlett?” he called, his stomach dropping.

After a moment, he followed the noise to the door of the guest room bedroom, which was half-open. He could see the shades drawn and all the lights turned off, the covers rumpled. The shape underneath them was curled up, sobbing into her arms. 

“Layla?” he asked, his voice quiet. He took another step into the room. “Everythin’ all right?”

Layla didn’t look up to him, but she didn’t scream at him to leave. At a total loss of what else to do, he slipped into the bedroom and sat down on the very edge of the bed. He’d already handled his niece breaking down in front of the entire world, and barely made it through watching her slowly put herself back together. But Scarlett was one thing; Layla he barely knew. 

“Layla?” he repeated.

It was a moment before she spoke, and when she did, she didn’t look at him.

“It wasn’t there,” she whispered.

He had to lean closer to hear her.

“What wasn’t there?”

She whimpered into the bedsheets. 

“The Drano,” she said. 

He stared at her for a moment.

“And that’s a problem?”

She glared at him. 

“Yes!” she said, like it was obvious. 

“It’s okay,” Deacon said. “We can always get some more.”

“Where?” Layla snapped. “The hardware store? The drain-unclogging store? I don’t know where to buy Drano. I don’t know where to even start looking for it. And I wouldn’t know what to do with it once I had it!”

Deacon blinked.

“I think there’s directions on the bottle,” he said. 

“That’s not the point!” Layla exclaimed.

“Then what is?” he asked. “Cause you’re freakin’ out and I’m missin’ the crisis here.”

“The crisis is that I can’t do anything!” Layla cried. “I don’t know how to unclog a bathroom drain!”

“I told you,” he said, bewildered. “I could help with the drain.”

It’s not about the drain!” Layla cried. 

“Then what IS it about?”

She sniffed, wiping her face with the back of her hand. “I can’t do anything for myself!” 

A fresh round of tears poured down her face. Deacon wished he had a tissue to hand her, or something more to do other than sit there on the edge of the mattress, not sure whether or not he should reach out a hand to touch her, or if that would upset her even more.

“I have to know how to do everything,” she said, her voice tight. “Like, get an apartment, pay rent, pay bills on time.” She shook her head. “And file a tax return, and get health insurance, and balance a checkbook...I don’t even know how to hold a baby right, and now I have to raise one by myself!” 

She ran a hand through her hair, brushing her bangs away from her forehead.

“My parents gave up on me,” she said. “Will was my whole world, and now he’s gone. Everyone thinks I’m a joke or a total fame whore. I have failed at literally everything in my entire life, and now I’m having a baby who expects me to grow up and NOT be a total failure.”

“I think you’re bein’ a little rough on yourself,” he said quietly. 

Layla sighed.

“I’m not,” she said. “Because my whole life, I’ve never had to do anything for myself. I’ve been a pageant princess, and a TV star, and a girlfriend and a wife – someone always took care of me, and now I’m alone, and I don’t know how to do that.” 

She looked up at Deacon with wet, wide eyes. 

“How can I take care of somebody else when I can’t even take care of myself?”

That night, Deacon ended up showing her how to unclog a drain by hand. It wasn’t putting a down payment on a car, or paying rent on an apartment, but it was something.

“Just get yourself a wire hanger like this,” he said, bending the long, straight bottom piece. “And use some wire cutters to snap this part off.”

Layla crossed her arms over her belly.

“Guess I’ll have to get some wire cutters,” she said softly. 

Deacon smiled at her. “Put it on the shopping list. Next to diapers.”

She almost grinned. Her face was red and puffy, her voice hoarse from tears, but at least her eyes were dry.

He snapped off the bottom of the hanger with the wire cutters, then bent the straight edge into a hook.

“You want this wide enough to grab the stuff in there,” he said, “but not big enough to get stuck in the drain. And then you just stick it down there and start feelin’ around. You probably won’t need to look too far, since most of the hair gets stuck at the top. Just twist it around in there until the clumps come out.”

Layla raised her eyebrow. 

“Clumps?” she echoed. 

Deacon nodded. “Hair. Dead skin. Toenails. Stuff all clumps together down there.” He grinned. “Tends to look like a dead ferret.”

She stared at him.

“Charming,” she replied.

Deacon held out the wire hook to her.

“All the fun you never knew you could have,” he replied. “Come on, give it a try.”

It took Layla a few tugs, but he stood by and watched her work, slowly and methodically, her face set in concentration. 

“You think I can do this?” she said, as she pushed the hook further down the drain. 

He knew what she really meant. Sometimes, he felt like he’d never been an adult without Rayna. 

“It’ll take some practice”, he told her, watching her slowly pull a hook full what looked like tangled snot out of the drainpipe. “But nothin’ a smart girl like you can’t handle.”

 

VII.

From the other room, the washing machine hums like a new idea. Over the noise he can hear Scarlett singing to herself, a melody he doesn’t recognize but doesn’t want to ask about.

He has seen, once or twice, the moleskin booklet tucked in the bottom of her bag. Seen her pull it out, when she thinks no one is around to watch. Like now, when she’s sitting on top of his dryer, her clothes spinning in a cold cycle while she bites her pen cap and scribbles something down. 

He turns and walks away before she knows he’s there. 

While Deacon waits for the doorbell, Layla sits on the living room floor. The baby lies on her back, legs kicking up in the air, and Layla has her stuffed monkey in her hands, dangling it in front of Maia’s face.

“Come on,” Deacon hears her coaxing. “Show Mama how you sit up.”

Maia gurgles, but seems more interested in grabbing her toes instead of the stuffed animal. It’s been her favorite past time for the past few months – discovering her feet, and feeling the need to stick them in her face, like she’s trying to make sure they’re real. 

“Just like her uncle,” Deacon comments wryly, and grins at Layla. “Open mouth, insert foot; lather, rinse, repeat for forty-seven years.”

Layla rolls her eyes. 

“I know she can sit up,” she says. “I just need her to practice it.”

“I don’t think it’s like a pageant talent.”

She’s hurt, but covers it up by looking pissed instead.

“And you would know all about that,” she says.

Deacon lets it go. Layla’s got more defenses than Fort Knox, and it doesn’t take brains to figure out why. She’s a single parent, and she’s got no help from her own family. The Grants wanted her to put the baby up for adoption when they found out about Will, and refused to speak to Layla when she disagreed. Deacon was no stranger to shitty parents, but he had to admit, Layla’s were something else. They hadn’t even called or texted their daughter when Maia was born, and had never once sent their grandchild a card or a note, or bothered to ask about her. 

And Will had never seen his daughter. 

Before Maya was born Layla told him and Scarlett – not really bitter, but just sounding tired – that she had been on various tabloid “Bump Watch” columns since before she and Will even tied the knot. Of course, their sudden marriage only fueled speculation even further, and on three separate occasions she had those trashy supermarket magazines reporting that she was pregnant before it even happened. In the past they could write it off, but just as the news was starting to move past the “Cowboy Kisser” and turned their cameras towards someone else, Layla was seen coming out of her OB/GYN’s office, and even the coat she was wearing couldn’t hide her growing belly. 

The tabloids had a field day with it, especially when they found out she was living with Deacon. Which meant a lot more headlines – the kind that he had tried to dodge when Maddie’s video went viral – and even more nasty speculations. And it wasn’t just from reporters, either. People Deacon knew even had something to say. Jeff Fordham had some not-quite-direct remarks to make, probably in the way of maintaining his denial that he knew anything about Will; Luke Wheeler had some oblique questions of his own, but Deacon figured that was mostly because he was still bitter over Rayna breaking up with him, and had less to do with what Luke really believed than it was about getting a jab in at Deacon’s expense. And Teddy Conrad was the only one with enough nerve to outright accuse Deacon of what the headlines of _Us Weekly_ were saying. 

For the most part, Layla kept her head down, and Deacon treated the press as he always had – like a virus. When he caught Layla torturing herself reading gossip websites that questioned Maia’s true paternity, he took her laptop and threatened to toss it out the window. When he was grocery-shopping with Scarlett and saw the screaming headlines, they paid for their food at the customer service counter. When Maddie came over one afternoon in tears because of what someone at school had said about Deacon, he calmed her down, then hid in the bathroom and tried not to punch the wall.

They survived it. Or at least, endured it, until the tabloids got bored and moved on to some celebrity heiress with a coke habit. Scarlett and Zoey talked Layla into leaving the house, even if it was just out for dinner. People stopped shoving cameras in her face, at her round belly. Rayna stood up to Teddy and refused to let him use the rumor mill as an excuse to keep Deacon from seeing his daughter. Maddie believed the truth, even if she was awkward around Layla, who just tried to stay out of everybody’s way. They stayed silent, and eventually the magazines and cameras and blogs and Tweeters (whatever they were called; Deacon was sure it was something like this) got over it. 

For now, Layla gives up with the monkey. Instead she takes Maia’s little hands, pulling her upright.

“All right,” she says. “Fine. You win this round.”

Maia blows out a bubble between her lips. Deacon’s phone buzzes. 

“Yeah.”

“Hey.” Rayna’s voice is flat. Deacon tries to gauge how pissed off she might be, but she’s always been good at putting on a good face for everyone else. Even if he doesn't really believe it.

“Hey. Somethin’ up?”

“Yeah. Just wanted you to know something. Maddie’s still coming by – we’re about to leave soon – but she and I had a little spat earlier this morning and I had to ground her from going to the movies with Talia. Only reason I’m letting her go to her guitar lesson is cause I don’t think it’d be fair to punish you, but one more outburst like the kind she had this morning and I’m probably gonna rethink letting her see Colt when he’s in town next weekend. I just need you to back me up on this, here. You know, be my co-parent.”

Deacon tries not to sing at the word “co-parent”. All these months of finally being able to be an active part of his daughter’s life, and the word still gives him a thrill.

“Sure. Yeah, of course. You know I will.”

“Great,” Rayna replies, in that same flat, unaffected voice. “Thanks. I appreciate this.”

“What exactly happened?” Deacon asks. “She been fighting with Teddy again?”

Rayna sighs.

“No. Well, sort of. It’s not just Teddy.” There’s a tired sound from the other end of the line. “Apparently, Maddie has decided that she doesn’t need to go to school, or do anything remotely related to schoolwork, which includes all her summer reading projects. And she’s also decided that she doesn’t want to go to college, she just wants to do music, because neither of her parents went to college.”

Deacon doesn’t miss the slight against Teddy in those words –Maddie referencing Deacon as one of her “parents”, and pursuing a path that the man who raised her couldn’t understand. 

“Well,” Deacon says. “You know if you have to put your foot down, I’ll help you.”

“That really means a lot.”

“Look, I get it. Sometimes you have to be the bad guy.” He smiles to himself a little. “Can’t always be the carefree parent, can I?”

“No, you can’t,” Rayna says, and even though she sounds tired he can hear the smile spreading across her face. “

From the living room, Maia hollers. 

“Uh-oh,” Rayna says through the phone. “Sounds like Maddie’s not the only one havin’ a moment today.”

Deacon rubs his eyes. 

“Just the heat,” he says. 

“Yeah,” Rayna says. “This weather is crazy lately.”

Talking about the weather. It was like they were checking off every obligatory box in the “awkward” column. A year of co-parenting their daughter successfully, and they were still at this place.

“We’ll be here soon,” Rayna says.

“I’ll be waitin’.” 

They hang up. Scarlett comes into the living room, a bucket of clean laundry attached to her hip. 

“This was in the dryer,” she says. “I moved it so I could fold my stuff.”

“Sorry,” Layla murmurs. “I meant to do that yesterday.”

She reaches for it, but Scarlett pulls it back.

“You’re not doing laundry on your birthday,” she says, then plops down on the floor next to the baby and starts peeling the pile apart. One of Maia’s baby socks is static-clung to a pair of Layla’s sweatpants, and a tank top of Maddie’s is tangled up with the sleeve of one of his button-downs. 

“I liked what you were humming,” Layla says, as she takes one of her own shirts out of the jumble. “New song?”

Scarlett shrugs. “I dunno. For now it’s not really anything.”

“Is it what you were working on this morning?” Deacon asks.

Scarlett shakes her head. 

“Another one,” she says. “I think. I’m not really sure where it’s going yet.”

She might have stepped away from performing entirely, but Scarlett’s still writing, and even got her publishing deal at South Circle back. She writes with Gunnar (and does a lot more than that, since he and Zoey broke it off, but she makes it clear that’s neither here nor there), and Avery’s produced a few demos for her to offer potential singers. 

She’s been doing all right for herself, too. A few months ago, she got pretty close to having Keith Urban cut on of her songs on his latest album, but he had to cut it at the last minute and release it as an iTunes bonus track only. Then another “almost” happened with Martina McBride, and a few months later there was a “yes” from Lady Antebellum, who cut one of the ballads she’d written with Gunnar and released it to radio. After debuting at number eleven on the country charts and peaking at four, Scarlett started getting more calls about songs she’d written, and even more interest in the ones she’d written with Gunnar. So much interest she was able to quit her waitressing job for a second time, except now it was to write. Which so far, had made her a nice living. 

He’s learned not to push, is what’s important. He’s heard her sing to Maia on long, sleepless nights. Listened to her harmonize sometimes with Maddie during guitar lessons. Once or twice, indulged him and sang along to one of his own songs. Scarlett seems happier than he can remember her being in a long time, and not just because she’s no longer being shoved onstage. There’s something about her that’s more steady, less fearful. She’d made it. She’d survived. 

He watches them both – one redhead and one blonde, the baby nestled between them. 

Deacon sometimes sees the same thing in Layla that he saw in Scarlett. When he looks at the girl now sitting on his living room floor, he doesn’t see a fragile, wide-eyed pageant girl anymore. He sees Layla arguing with the broken dishwasher at seven in the morning while Maia whines in her high chair. He sees Layla coming home after a thirteen-hour shift at the Bluebird, make-up smeared down her cheeks, smelling of grease and Lysol. He sees Layla walking the halls with a screaming infant at four in the morning, puke stains on the shoulders of her t-shirt, murmuring under her breath. 

It surprises people, to see who she’s become. People still do a double-take when they see her at the Bluebird, asking “hey, aren’t you Layla Grant?” when they see her taking up Scarlett’s old mantel, waiting tables and serving drinks to the performers she’d wanted so badly to be like.

One night, a few weeks before Maia was born, Deacon had gone upstairs to say goodnight to her and saw the girl standing in the middle of the guest room – now with a crib parked in the corner. She was staring at something small she was resting on the curve of her belly, fingering in the palm of her hand. 

It was her wedding ring. 

Layla didn’t hear him standing there in the doorway. She seemed mesmerized by the little gold band, just running her thumb over it slowly and carefully, spinning it around in her fingers. 

He didn’t know she’d kept it. 

Not wanting to startle her, Deacon backed out of the doorway, and tried to tiptoe back to his own room she wouldn’t know he’d been watching.

The next morning, he made pancakes. Scarlett said she was moving to an apartment downtown. Deacon said this was a good idea. Layla said nothing. When Deacon grabbed that morning’s edition of The Tennessean he saw the front page was an article about a recycling campaign implemented by the city council. Scarlett said the pancakes were delicious, and he thanked her. 

There was no mention of wedding rings that morning, or supermarket tabloid rumors. No mention of moleskin journals, or stays in a psychiatric clinics, or pills and booze and failed stints in rehab. No mentions of ex-husbands or old lovers, of daughters lost to fathers. Or fathers who wanted to stay lost. 

 

VIII.

Scarlett is heading back home, newly folded clothes resting in a laundry basket Deacon gave her. Well, she called it a loan, but Deacon figures he can spare a damn laundry bucket. 

She kissed the baby – who was starting to fuss again – and called to Layla over her shoulder on the way out. 

“I’m picking you up at seven,” she said, her voice getting louder to be heard over the sound of the baby starting to cry. “Be ready. Wear somethin’ slutty.”

“And not smelling like puke,” Layla muttered, but the baby started to scream, so only Deacon heard her. Scarlett left, probably hurrying out before the real fireworks began, and as soon as the door swung shut behind her Maia really turned up the volume, putting her little lungs to work.

Deacon sighs as he hears Scarlett’s car pull away, barely audible over the sound of Maia hollering. Layla picks the baby up and starts to jiggle her, murmuring through gritted teeth. 

“Want me to take her?” he asks. He’s already holding his arms out.

The frazzled expression and dark circles under her eyes say yes, but she still hesitates when he reaches for the baby.

“You’ve got Maddie,” she says. 

“They’re runnin’ late.” He lifts Maia out of her arms, and the baby screeches directly in his ear. “You get the laundry.”

Layla blinks, arms still reached out like she’s holding her daughter, and then she lets out a sigh of exhausted relief. She sinks down on the couch, and starts to untangle their blended laundry, while he takes Maia out to the front porch.

Maia isn’t much of a sleeper, and neither is Deacon. Usually, the two of them end up “not-sleeping” together. Layla feels guilty about this every time, but Deacon doesn’t mind.

Maybe it’s because he missed out on being able to do this with his own daughter; missed the opportunity to have that pure sitcom moment with Rayna when both of them would hear Maddie wailing through the baby monitor and he’d whisper, “S’okay, I got it” to let her mama go back to sleep. Or because Will had walked away on purpose, and never tried to contact Layla since mailing her the divorce papers. Maybe because he knows what it means to have a child kept from you, but in Will’s case, he’d known about Maia from the start.

Or because he just takes pity on Layla, who is too exhausted to remember how to turn on the coffee maker some days.

Whatever the reason, after Maia was born Deacon’s insomniac adventures went from the “watching reruns of Unsolved Mysteries at four AM while trying to write a song” to “walking the halls with a screaming infant at four AM and trying to write a song”. 

He doesn’t know many lullabies, and when he’d tried to sing one he thought that the part about the cradle falling and spiders getting washed away was just as screwed-up as any good country song. So after a few attempts to keep her quiet with Mother Goose he’d switched to the Carter Family and Willie Nelson, Ray Price and Tammy Wynette a few times. She especially settled down when he sang a few Tom Waits songs. He wasn’t sure what that said about her, exactly, but it did give his ears a break from the crying.

When it got warmer, he’d started pushing the stroller late at night, sticking to the street because the sidewalks were uneven. He’d talk to her, because the silence felt weird, and he figured it didn’t matter what he said, he had an audience that was either hollering or fast asleep, and he’d bared his soul in dive bars to worse audiences than a restless infant. So he’d walk down the streets and push the stroller, just talking to her about his day. 

He got used to talking to her. It wasn’t unheard of for him to be preparing his coffee in the morning, getting into a heated debate with himself about the relevance of Kitty Wells in modern country music as Maia sat in her high chair, fingers pulling at the corner of her mouth, soundlessly drooling onto her bib. 

It doesn’t stop being funny to Deacon: between Scarlett, who’s always hurrying in and out, Layla, who’s always exhausted, and Maddie, who’s always tearful and getting into more and more fights with Teddy, Maia is the most captive audience he’s had in months. 

He steps onto the porch to wait for Rayna and Maddie, the baby still fussing. He uses the usual tricks, jiggling her in his arms, bending his knees slightly to bounce as he rocks her from side to side. Motion always soothes her, and if he had the time he’d put her in his truck and drive her around the block until she calmed down, but for now he has to contend himself with squatting up and down, like a human pogo stick, ignoring the creak in his knees and how ridiculous he must look to anyone passing by.

“Okay,” he says to Maia, barely able to hear himself over her cries. “A game of Elevator with Uncle Deacon, and maybe you’ll be happy.”

The look on her red, teary face isn’t too sure, but a few more rounds of Elevator gives him a more reassuring look of calm. She stops crying, and while she still lets out the occasional sputter every now and then, after a few more bounces she’s quiet in his arms. 

Good. His knees are starting to ache. Shit, he’s old. 

He sees Rayna’s car come around the corner, and sees Rayna before he sees Maddie. Daphne follows behind her sister, bouncing when she walks. She’s all eagerness and smiles, the freeness of being on summer vacation.

Maddie, on the other hand, slouches down the driveway. Rayna marches behind her, staring directly ahead. That’s how Deacon knows that whatever this thing is, it’s going to stick to the morning like a hangover – an all-day ache that makes you want to shut out the world.

“Hey,” he says, smiling at Maddie – who ignores him – and Rayna – who tries to grin back. 

“Hey.”

Maddie rolls her eyes, like the sound of her mother’s voice is too much to deal with right now. She stomps inside without a word to him.

Daphne runs up the porch steps.

“She’s in trouble,” she informs Deacon, grinning like an imp. 

“Daphne,” Rayne says, a tone that books no argument. “Give us a minute.”

Daphne sighs, rolling her eyes in a way that would be funny if Deacon couldn’t feel the tension pouring off Rayna in waves. Still, he can’t help but wink at the little girl as she follows her sister inside.

“You babysitting while y’all have your lesson?” Rayna asks, looking at Maia.

“No. Layla’s here.”

Maia yelps, her arms reaching out, and something in Rayna’s tired expression changes. She holds out her hands, motioning for him.

“Well, come on. Hand that baby over.”

And he does, because he’s always done what she asked. Rayna takes Maia, looking at her red, teary face, and brushes the damp fringe out of her eyes.

“Hey, sweet girl,” she says. It’s a voice Deacon remembers from when Maddie and Daphne were small. Coming onto the bus after a show when both girls were sleeping, and leaning down to kiss their foreheads, murmuring to them in their half-dreams. 

“She really does look more like Will every day,” she says, touching the top of the baby’s sweaty blonde head. 

He takes one of Maia’s outstretched hands, letting her wrap it around his finger.

“Yeah,” he says. “But look at it like a positive thing.”

Rayna smiles at him. The tension seems to drain away from her face when she does.

“Oh, crap. Is it ten already?”

Deacon and Rayna both startle, and he lets go of the baby’s hand. Layla is coming down the steps with the empty laundry basket, and breaks into a power-walk when she sees the girls in the living room, and Rayna holding Maia in her arms. 

“Sorry!” she calls. She drops the laundry basket on the couch and runs to take her daughter. “I’m so sorry! I’ll be out of the way, just give me a sec.”

“No hurry,” Rayna says smoothly. It’s the tone Deacon has heard and heard her perfect over years of industry meetings and business deals, and at parties that were always more business than pleasure. 

Layla takes Maia, looking sheepish. Her feet are bare, hair in a messy ponytail. She’s wearing no make-up and a t-shirt with various baby-induced stains on the shoulders. The baby is still wearing only a diaper, and squawks in her mother’s arms. Layla bites her lip and looks down at the floor, and Deacon watches her curl her toes underneath her feet. Her cheeks are red, and not just from the heat. Nobody likes to look like they don’t have it together in front of Rayna; least of all him. 

“Tell you what,” Rayna says. “Why doesn’t everybody who isn’t taking a guitar lesson take this show to the kitchen.”

“Not until I tell Deacon!” Daphne says.

He peers down at her. “Tell me what?”

“What today is!”

He looks at Rayna, who shrugs. 

“Do you know what day it is?” Daphne asks again.

“Uhhh…Saturday?”

“The solstice!” Daphne chirps. 

“No one cares,” Maddie replies.

Daphne ignores her. Rayna doesn’t. 

“It’s the longest day of the year,” the little girl tells Deacon. 

“Really.”

“She’s right,” Layla says, switching Maia to the other hip. The baby immediately makes a grab for her ponytail, which Layla extracts from her tiny hand. “Summer solstice. The longest day of the year for people who live in the Northern Hemisphere.” 

“Seems a little pessimistic for your birthday,” Deacon says, smiling.

“Says the guy who watches _Old Yeller_ every year on his,” Layla shoots back. “What, you think the dog won’t die this time?”

“It’s an uplifting story about a boy and his dog,” he intones. 

“Whatever,” she says. “You must really hate yourself.”

He can hear Rayna snickering under her breath. 

Maddie holds out her guitar, tapping her foot.

“Deacon,” she says, loading each syllable. “Can we start now?”

Rayna sighs. 

“Yes,” she says, nodding to Deacon. “We’ll get out of the way.”

Rayna ushers Daphne out the door, then turns back to Layla.

“Happy birthday, sweetheart,” she says. 

Layla blinks. It might be tears, but before Deacon can be sure she smoothes her face back to something else. She doesn’t have a very good poker face.

“Thanks,” she says. “I’ll try.”

Rayna smiles at her. “And also? Love the hair.”

 

IX.

Deacon spent the day his niece was born like this:

Playing in a sleazy dive in west Memphis, already lit when he took the stage. That wasn’t unusual in those days, and the crowd was farther gone than he was, so it didn’t matter to them none if he stumbled through a few chords. Afterward, he went to the bar to drink for free with the same guys that booed him, and the bartender got a collect phone call from Natchez. 

He stared at his shot glass, and wondered if he’d ever see her. If he’d ever get to be a part of her life. Then figured that was up to him if he ever was, so he went to the dingy men’s room, splashed some water on his face, ditched the band and took a bus back to Mississippi. 

He saw Scarlett for the first time when she was eleven hours old, blonde and red-faced with a tiny slash for a mouth. She had no scent, and didn’t start squalling when Beverly put her in his arms – something the nurse was hesitant to do, when she saw him come into his sister’s room looking like roadkill, shaking because he hadn’t had a drink in eighteen hours and blinking because the hospital lights weren’t helping the hangover.

He almost didn’t take the baby – he felt like he might drop her – but before he knew it, his niece was in his arms, all pink and soft and warm and too small to feel real or be alive – but then she opened her eyes, a hazy blue, and he didn’t want to let go of her. 

Deacon spent the day his child was born like this:

In an AA meeting, in Hendersonville, with Coleman. It was a cold March morning. The grass was brown in front of the community center where the meetings were held – it had been a harsh winter, and so far, a frigid spring. There were construction-paper handprints all over the wall, a rainbow of tiny shapes with BRAXTON and ADDISON and HANNAH written across the palm. Deacon’s eyes traced them and he wondered what Rayna had named the baby.

“Name’s Deacon,” he said, when it was his turn. “I’m a drunk, and it cost me everything I ever wanted.”

Coleman told him, later on. A girl. Seven pounds, seven ounces. Blonde. 

He tried to picture a newborn in Rayna’s arms, but all he could see was Rayna’s face, and her curls, and her eyes, and her smile, and picture the day his golden-haired niece was handed to him and he never wanted to put her down. 

Deacon spent the day Will Lexington’s child was born like this:

Just as quickly as Layla’s entire life had come crumbling down, it built itself back up. She went from being Will’s wife, a country singer with a record deal at one of Nashville’s top labels, and a reality TV show star to working at the Bluebird, cleaning tables and rolling silverware during the day shifts. Zoey and Avery pulled a few strings with their manager, and it helped that Deacon had been regularly selling out the house during his regular Thursday night slot for nearly a year; Layla had never had a job before, was trying to live down tabloid infamy, and on top of everything else, had just started to show.

But she handled it well. She was good at taking directions, took any shift available, and most of the people who came through there left her alone. Bussing tables and rinsing out coffee mugs was far-cry from opening for Juliette Barnes and having your own TV show, but she kept her mouth shut and her head down – which wasn’t easy when she couldn’t maneuver through the narrow tables with that huge belly of hers, but somehow, she managed. She spent the last few weeks before Maia was born too pregnant and uncomfortable to do much more than sit at the bar and polish coffee mugs, her feet dangling off a stool because she couldn’t stay standing for long. 

The Bluebird didn’t offer Layla maternity leave, so she worked up until the day she had the baby. Maia was born on a cold, clear November day, only hours before Deacon played at the Grand Ole Opry. Layla had been cleaning out bar glasses with a dishrag when she went into labor, and to this day people still joked that if Zoey hadn’t been so quick to drive her straight to the ER at Vanderbilt, Layla might have given birth right there at the Bluebird.

“She’s blonde,” Scarlett told him, calling him from the maternity ward when it was all over. “And almost ten pounds. They had to do a C-section to get the baby out, but they’re both fine.”

“Huh,” was all Deacon could reply. 

“What?” Scarlett asked.

“Nothing. Just…happy everyone’s all right.”

“Speak for yourself. I think Zoey’s gonna be in therapy for the next eighteen years. She saw the whole thing.”

Deacon smiled into the phone. 

After a moment, he asked, “I take it Will wasn’t there?”

He heard Scarlett sigh. 

“No. But nobody really thought he would be.”

He shrugged, then remembered Scarlett couldn’t see that. 

There was a long pause at the end of the line.

There had been a gun, was what Deacon had pieced together. He didn’t know much else about what happened on Will’s side of things, after the truth got out. He figured Scarlett knew the whole story, but if she did she wasn’t telling him, and Gunnar seemed afraid to say it out loud. Like speaking the words would pull some kind of trigger, opening a Pandora’s box that looked more like a coffin. 

Deacon hadn’t seen Will since before the news broke, and he didn’t exactly have any experience with his sort of…situation. But he did know something about daughters. About fathers. About how impossible it all seemed; to be the kind of man a baby girl needed to look up to, the kind of man worthy of being called “Daddy”. He knew something about being afraid you’d never measure up to the task, of being broken inside.

He’d never said anything about this to anyone – Rayna, Scarlett, Maddie, hell, even Coleman – but sometimes, he understood why Rayna had kept the secret from him. If Deacon had known Maddie was his, he probably would have distanced himself from her, or tried to as much as possible. He probably would have wanted to keep himself away from his newborn daughter, only because he felt like if he got too close, he’d fuck her up, and never forgive himself for it. Back then he’d been a trainwreck, an addict, too weak and too in love with Rayna and hating himself too much ever be much good for anything. And sure, maybe knowing he had a child who needed him would have helped, but as much as Deacon resented Rayna for her lies, sometimes he realized the truth – it did everybody a world of good, keeping him and Maddie in the dark, and that was nobody’s fault but his own.

Maddie had a childhood where the man she called “Daddy” actually had half a clue how to be a father. And Deacon was now sober enough and had a solid-enough relationship with Rayna to where they could deal with each other without falling apart and tearing each other’s hearts to pieces. He wasn’t the man he was when Rayna got pregnant, when Maddie was born, or even when he found out who Maddie really was. 

Maybe, Deacon figured, Will thought his child having no dad at all would be better than one who would end up with him for a father. 

Because Maddie had been so…clean. So pure. Innocent. Nothing touched her, nothing had ruined her. For all she knew at Maia’s age, everyone in her life had always had best interest at heart. And back when she’d been a newborn, Deacon had been afraid to even breathe on her the wrong way. If he’d known that he’d been holding his own child in his arms – his child with Rayna – he probably would have never let himself touch her. He would have been too afraid of hurting her, and he never would have been able to live with himself if Maddie was ever harmed by his own fuck-ups. 

He’s never said any of this. Because Lord knows they’ve all heard enough about the exploits of Will Lexington to last them all a lifetime and a half. And he doesn’t think Layla has much sympathy for her ex-husband these days. Not that he blames her. 

(He knows he could have told this to Will himself. But he never has.) 

Still. As Deacon snuck out the back door of the theatre and headed straight over to Vanderbilt to see Layla and the brand new baby, he thought maybe, there was a chance he understood. 

 

X.

One requirement of his weekend visits with Maddie are that he attends weekly AA meetings. Which isn’t much a stretch for him, because he would have done that without court-appointed dates and times that he could spend with his own child, like he was some kind of deviant. 

The social worker still asks him, though. Every time he has to meet with her. He keeps the chip in his pocket – two years strong, and while it’s not thirteen years without a drop he’ll take what he can get – but she’s never asked to show it to him. She just nods, asks too many damn questions, and scribbles words down on her neat little clipboard while she squints her eyes at him, like she’s a speck of dust she needs to clean.

Damn busybody. 

That chip’s on his back pocket right now, as he heads into the living room toward his daughter. Maddie settles herself in their usual position in the living room, already picking out the chords to a song they started writing last week. Layla is fixing a bottle for Maia, and Deacon sees her nodding her head along with the music. Even the baby seems calmed by it, spacing out and sucking on her fingers while Layla mixes the powdered formula. 

He never much liked his birthdays growing up, mostly because they usually ended bloody. More than once his daddy, already drunk by noon, would blow up over something or another, and find a way to ruin the day. It wasn’t just birthdays, either – any holiday, from Christmas to Thanksgiving to the Fourth of July, was an excuse to crack one before ten AM and ruin any holiday spirit their family might have tried to possess. 

One year his dad upended the cake entirely, mad at something that Deacon couldn’t even remember. And when Beverly started crying that she’d wanted a piece, he smashed her face into the table. Deacon couldn’t remember if that was the same year he’d ended up breaking his wrist on his nose, or if that was a different year Daddy had managed to bloody up his “special” day. 

Last year on Layla’s birthday, Scarlett was up before dawn baking cupcakes. Layla stayed in bed with the shades drawn and wouldn’t come out, which was more or less how things had been since she came to live with them. This had been only a few weeks after everything with Will, and she still wasn’t talking much. Scarlett went into her bedroom while Deacon stood in the doorway, keeping his distance while his niece broke off the bottom of the cupcake and stuck it on the frosting-slathered top.

“What’d you do that for?” Layla mumbled, her head still turned into the pillow. 

Deacon smiled. 

“So you can have frosting in every bite,” he said, and Scarlett grinned at him over his shoulder.

It wasn’t much of a birthday, but they got Layla smiling, and got her out of bed. Scarlett cooked and Zoey came over, and the girls ended up on his couch that night, laughing and whispering to each other like a couple of regular conspirators. Deacon watched them, and realized it was the first time Layla Grant had smiled since the day she was brought to his house. 

A year later, he's with his daughter while Layla takes her own. Longest day of the year or not, today is just starting, and the summer with it. He takes the chair across from Maddie, and picks up his own guitar. Rayna never stays for guitar lessons, so she waved goodbye as she and Daphne headed towards the car, calling over her shoulder for Maddie to text her when it’s over. 

This is his territory. His time, his decisions. It’s Deacon’s choices, here, with his daughter. She respects that. 

Layla is heading up the stairs, feeding Maia her bottle. She pauses for a moment, staring at Maddie’s guitar. 

“I heard that song you were writing last week,” she says finally. “Sounded really good.”

Maddie smiles, but at Deacon, not Layla. 

Deacon hears Layla sometimes, when she thinks he’s not around. Playing her own guitar through the walls. Humming melodies furtively under her breath, gathering rhythms like spare change. She still keeps a journal, but like with Scarlett, he doesn’t ask questions. 

Part of him still wants to ask Layla about why she held onto that ring. But it felt like opening Scarlett’s journal, or asking about her songs. A part of life she needed to keep to herself. 

Besides. He fingers the small piece of plastic in his pocket.

Wedding bands. Sobriety chips. Even moleskin journals. We all had our ways, of reminding ourselves of who we used to be. 

Maddie is hunched over her guitar, biting her lip in an expression he remembers from Rayna. It’s the same look she had on her face when they wrote so many of their songs.

“I finished the chorus last night,” she says, then smiles at Deacon. “You want to hear it?”

He knows he needs to bring up the whole school thing, and her breaking curfew. He knows co-parenting means being the bad guy, sometimes. He knows he’s got a responsibility. 

But right now, he wants to hear his daughter sing. See her keep smiling at him. 

He’d do any damn thing in the world to see that smile. 

He smiles at her. “Let me hear everything you got.”


End file.
